


Oblivion

by stuffilikeiwrite



Series: The Unexpected Cannot Be Expected [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Angst, Cause it's Sherlock, Drunk Watson - Freeform, Feelings Realization, Fluff and Angst, Implied Drug Use, Implied Masturbation, Implied Sexual Content, John is oblivious, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Onesided (probably but might not be), POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Feels, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Sherlock and Drugs are a given, Unrequited Love, rdjverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:35:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25249999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuffilikeiwrite/pseuds/stuffilikeiwrite
Summary: This little idea came to mind, and I couldn't help but pen it. It's not as much of an analysis as my other Holmes/Watson works, but I had fun writing it and attempting to do their dialogue justice. Hope it works alright. Enjoy!
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: The Unexpected Cannot Be Expected [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1808986
Comments: 2
Kudos: 31





	Oblivion

It wasn't that Holmes had never been half carrying a completely sloshed Watson home before. In fact, when they had still shared flats on 221B, it had sometimes been a rather common occurrence. But back then, he hadn't been as intimately aware of the emotions and unusual tugging sensations at the pit of his belly Watson's close proximity would raise. Watson's breath reeking of liquor was indeed not a big draw, but the ever present familiar heavy applicant of cologne and underlying musk was unmistakable.

Grunting with the effort; Holmes tightened his grip as he hauled Watson upwards when the doctor stumbled over his own feet, his limp threatening to make them both topple over when unbalanced. It wasn't that far left, thankfully. Holmes wasn't sober himself; but he might as well be immune to the effects of alcohol. He had built up the resistance, after all, over the years. He pursed his lips as Watson's hearty, deep belly laughter echoed across the empty cobblestone streets. Everything shrouded in darkness, but for some faintly glowing gas lights illuminating their path. The laughter tapered off into a fit of giggles.

"Y're such a g'd mate, Holmes," mumbled Watson in a thick, drunken voice.

"And you, my dear friend, are utterly wasted."

Holmes couldn't help the soft smile that tugged at the corners of his lips, and he offered a small glance sideways to take a gander at Watson's flushed features. His eyes wet and glazed over, twinkling in the scarce light. His cheeks rosy from both the cold, and the intoxication. His clumsy, unsteady fist gripping too tight at the fabric of Holmes' well worn dark overcoat. His top hat askew, his lips redder than ever. Holmes felt the tightening in his chest cavity, and immediately cast his gaze aside; face dropping. He shouldn't be noticing that, or rather he shouldn't be paying such close attention.

"But y'are. Always helpin' me out, y'try to convince us y're a twat, but I - I know y'er a doll."

Watson's tone was so soft, so tender with honesty as the doctor shifted enough that his breath came in heated puffs against Holmes' exposed earlobe. Now Holmes insistently wished he hadn't lost is ratty old scarf, if only so he might have pulled it up to shield himself. It sent a delightful tingle down his spine; another following its direct lead as Watson huffed and stumbled briefly.

Holmes almost sighed in relief, all tension draining out of him as he spotted the last turn of the road that would see them arriving at their final destination. Giving Watson a gentle, open palmed pat on the belly with his free hand; he nodded in acknowledgement.

"Ah, but you know me too well, do you not."

He attempted to throw some sarcasm into the retort, not even with Watson off his rockers would he want to allude to any inappropriate affectious connections or relations his mind might be making. Still, the attempt failed spectacularly once they rounded the corner, and Watson decided to act out of character.

"I do. Know everythin' 'bout you. I know Ma - Mary says y're a gobermouch, but y're a handsome fellah. Got yer wits 'bout you. Thank y'for bein' my good mate. M'dearest mate."

This time Watson's tone was almost husky, a bit breathy and before Holmes could think much of it; there were warm lips pressed sweetly to his stubbled cheek. A sloppy, wet, drunken kiss that was more slobbering than an actual kiss. Still, it lingered for a moment too long, making it decidedly improper in its drunken abandon. Holmes almost stopped dead in his tracks, so dumbfounded by the act - and by the heated surge of what could only be desire that shot straight to his groin. Enough to trigger a throbbing sensation he couldn't recall having experienced since his adolescence. He found his breath getting caught in his throat, his face feeling increasingly warm as a heated blush rose in his cheeks. In fact, his entire body was heated, to the point he almost feared there'd be steam radiating off of him. 

Gawking, Holmes slowly turned his head once Watson withdrew to openly stare at him with wide, dark doe eyes. Watson only offered a loud yawn, eyelids half shut and heavy with sleep. A toothy, boyish grin peering from beneath his moustache as he leaned into Holmes with his head firmly on his shoulder; nuzzling the space until he found it to his liking - his hat ready to depart its position and the beginning of its descent towards the ground was what tore Holmes out of his stupor. He caught it in its fall with clumsy, clammy hands as he helped straighten Watson up and held onto the brim of that damned hat like a lifeline.

Chest heaving; Watson's half snores as he sleep walked the only sound as Holmes fell into an awkward, befuddled silence while they reached and made their way up the doorsteps as cautiously as possible. Well there, Holmes knocked twice, knowing Mrs Hudson would be up to answer. The candlelight in her downstairs window had betrayed her presence, much as every other night in the past when they'd been out for a drink or two. Watson shifted to lean further into him again, this time nudging the tip of his cold nose against the side of Holmes' neck. The rasp of his mustache followed; the prickle against sensitive skin enough to make Holmes shudder and bite back a gasp.

He resorted for another, more frantic and less composed set of knocks. He huffed when finally he heard shuffled footsteps on the other side of the doorway; Watson's free hand now coming up to fumble blindly until it could cling to Holmes' waistcoat through the unbuttoned outerwear. Holmes felt his pulse quicken to dash madly through his veins; the throbbing of his groin area now settling into an ache that knew no bounds. He was afraid to glance down at the indecent display the front of his trousers no doubt must be making, thankful for the loose fitting nature of that overcoat. At least, he was convinced Mrs Hudson would be busy tending to Watson, rather than bothering with giving him a proper once over.

The rattle of a key, then a lock chain following as the door was finally opened for them. Mrs Hudson stood with one candle in hand; a neat robe thrown over her nightgown. Holmes carelessly placed Watson's hat atop her head, her noises of protest falling on deaf ears.

"Do you know the hour, boys? Oh heavens, what have you gotten the poor doctor into this time, Sherlock?" she tusked, silver eyebrows briefly furrowed as she set the hat aside on the wall mounted hatrack.

"Yes, yes I am quite aware, and I shall make great haste to repent for my misconduct, Nanny, however I have in no way been complacent in Watson’s grand self deprecation," Holmes simply shrugged while waving a noncommittal hand, dismissive enough to earn himself a scowl. "May you see our dear Watson to bed? I fear I... have more pressing matters to tend to. Surely, he shan't mind your assistance."

The feeble humming noise Watson produced, still clinging to Holmes was enough of an affirmation.

"It is half past one in the morning!" Mrs Hudson simply chastised in response.

"Yes, so it is."

"What may you possibly be pressed to attend to in the middle of the night?"

"Indeed, did you not mere seconds ago declare it morning? Now, Watson's old lodgings must be eagerly awaiting his rare embrace."

Holmes countered, pursing his lips as he moved to disentangle Watson's strong hands from his clothing. Watson grunted in disapproval, lazily blinking his eyes open but at the very least straightening up enough to stand mostly on his own. Holmes exhaled in relief, and didn't bother masking it this time.

"There we are. Right as rain, my dear Watson, do you not think? As you can see, he is quite fit to walk by his own admission. You need only guide him, preferably by the hand," Holmes stated, grasping gently at Watson's upper arms to hold him steady; hands lingering just tad too long before pushing the doctor in Mrs Hudson's direction and letting go for her to carry out her duties as lead dog.

Holmes didn't move until the pair had disappeared through the left doorway, rooted to the varnished wood beneath his feet as his gaze followed Watson's unsteady form. Then, something snapped as he hurried in as modest a pace as he could manage in this late hour up the stairs towards his own flat. As soon as he crossed the threshold; he flung the door shut behind him with a unceremonious slam. He yelled a hasty pardon as he leaned back against the wooden frame, and a double tapping noise of what could only be Mrs Hudson wielding Watson's sturdy cane served as a warning. Holmes paid it no heed. With trembling fingers, he slid out of his coat and unbuttoned his waistcoat, to let it slip off his frame and land in a discarded heap of cloth at his feet. 

He shut his eyes; but all good that did was serve to heighten the experience, the thrill of what could only be arousal. The room remained dark around him, even the bluish shadows in the light of lamps seeping through the dirty window panes little but ghosts. Holmes heard only his own pulse hammering at his eardrums, and he blindly reached up to run his unsteady hands through his messy dark hair. Watson's fair eyes in their drunken haze etched before his inner vision. The feeling of wet, warm, soft lips pressed to his flesh. Another tidal pulse of blood shooting through his nether regions; the aching making his knees wobble beneath his weight.

When he finally dared to glance downwards to note his own crotch area, the pang of guilt and confusion that struck him was enough to suck the air out of his lungs. Holmes rubbed at his sweat sheened forehead, the evident tented front visible even in the gloom of night. As if on cue, one hand traveled slowly down the side of his own face. Over cheekbones, over the jaw line, through the dark wavy curls at the nape of his neck. Fingertips touching the spot along his pulse point where Watson's mustache had left its memory. The other hand dropped much lower, hurriedly working the belt buckle open enough to slide beneath the hem of those trousers and undergarments. He quivered at the impact of first touches to the heated bar of flesh, even as he took it in hand.

If Holmes had never known what physical arousal caused by any outward sources felt like before; he knew now. If he had never known why men would willingly pursue an outlet for sexual release before; he knew now, even if it had come by his own doing as he gasped when the pleasure of release washed over him. In the aftermath, it left him breathless in more ways than one while he sunk fatigued to the floor. And if he had never known shame in his life; the waves of humiliation that now washed over him was enough to make him curl up in a ball, desperate for blissful sleep. It appeared the morals of social construct had wormed their way into his subconscious after all.

The shame wouldn't go away. Especially not when come noon, he wandered downstairs for tea and tobacco, only to run into a puffy faced Watson seated in his remaining armchair; dark bags under his eyes with a complex pale as death itself. It left a bitter taste in Holmes' mouth, a sodden weight at the pit of his stomach when reminded of the sickening act he had performed. For a brief moment, the horror must have been visible on Holmes' face; as he watched Watson tilt his head in concern.

"You needn't worry about me, old chap. I've seen worse. As for you, and what was decidedly a torment by your design, Mary shall never know."

"I shall hold you to that promise, my friend."

"I would expect as much."

Holmes teethed his bottom lip, gaze wavering as he was granted a genuine smile before Watson returned to slowly sipping on his own prefered cup of tea. Camomille. Obviously perched with the newspaper on his lap. So, the sickness had already faded, Holmes gathered. It must be later in the day than he had presumed. He straightened up, and gave Watson a feigned lopsided grin in return. His own stomach churning as if with nausea, when he approached to give his friend a fond pat on the shoulder. He'd raise too much suspicion if he forfeit the habit. Yet, the touch had the suppressed guilt returning tenfold, and he forced himself not to wince as he reached for his pipe to stuff and light it. He had stronger things stored away and he'd make good use of them later, no question about it.

How could he ever look at Watson the same again? As he sank into his own worn armchair by the window, Watson settled across from him as in the olden days - before Watson's engagement and subsequent flight - Holmes for the first time figured Watson marrying Mary might be the best option he had. How could he ever bear the constant allure of Watson so near and yet so far? Even now, his heart was pounding viciously against his breastbone. Even now, the familiar scent and the calm expression adorning Watson's features made his skin tingle, desperate for contact.

With that deduction however, Holmes wasn't convinced as to whether the sorrow over the loss of his dearest friend, or the contempt for his own newly discovered attraction towards the man was worse.

He'd have _preferred_ ignorant oblivion.

**Author's Note:**

> "Y're such a g'd mate, Holmes," mumbled Watson in a thick, drunken voice.
> 
> "And you, my dear friend, are utterly wasted."


End file.
